


Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You

by maiNuoire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiNuoire/pseuds/maiNuoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fight, Stiles goes out dancing to try to forget about it. It doesn't go quite as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You

**Author's Note:**

> This has been languishing in my "I don't know how I feel about this one" folder for a while, and several lovely friends on tumblr helped me to fix some things, so I am finally happy enough with it to post it here.
> 
> This was supposed to be funny, but apparently I can't really do that, and this happened.
> 
> P.S. I am not 100% happy with the last two sections, but I couldn't really figure out what I wanted to change, so I didn't. Also, I 1000% believe that after a fight these two get super possessive, so I hope that it works anyway!
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

Derek Hale can go straight to Hell.

 

Him and his fucking beautiful eyebrows, and his stupid galaxy-deep eyes, and his goddamned perfect mouth, and that ridiculous stubble that always feels so freakin’ perfect rubbing against his face, and leaves the most delicious burns on the delicate skin of Stiles’ thi- no! No no no!

 

Damnit, just no! Now is not the time to be thinking about stupid, perfect, infuriating Derek Hale.

 

Stiles came to this club to find a suitable distraction from his thoughts, a distraction from replaying their last  _ stupid fucking fight _ over and over in his head.

 

He came here to drink, and dance, and  _ forget. _

 

He moves through the mess of bodies, his mission clear in his mind, finding an unexpected but not unwelcome thrill at the occasional brush of overheated skin against his own bare arms. The slide of curious fingertips along his back, the curve of his ass. The not-so-occasional glances of appreciation, of  _ desire _ , directed at him are a little surprising, which is stupid, he knows; he has-  _ had? _ \-  **has** , definitely has, Derek  _ freakin’  _ Hale waiting on him at home. Well, somewhere, because Derek had left their home before Stiles had after the fight. And goddamnit, he has got to stop.

 

He makes his way to the bar and orders a whiskey. He definitely doesn't hear Derek's voice whispering _ “God, baby, your eyes are like honey and whiskey and fire. Your eyes are better than any drug, any anything.” _

 

He knocks the drink back and immediately signals for another. This one he sips slowly, turning to face the dance floor. He closes his eyes and let's the music sink into him, feels the rhythm course through him, the baseline a steady thrum under his skin, in his bones.

 

Stiles sets the empty tumbler on the polished wood of the bar, the ice clinking gently against the glass, he takes a moment to appreciate the deep, rich mahogany of the counter, it's texture smooth and cool under his palm. He feels the pull of the music and it's like a living thing inside him. He feels almost anxious in a way he hasn't in years, like if he doesn't move right now he'll shake apart. He can feel all those things he's trying not to think about on the edges of his awareness and he knows that if he can just  _ move _ , just  _ dance _ then he can  _ forget. _ He can push away the rising panic.

 

So he listens to the call of the driving beat, and makes his way to the dance floor quickly, not savoring the brief touches, the heated glances or the feel of being wanted this time. 

 

He finds an empty bit of dance floor and begins to move, starting slowly, letting the rhythm wash over him, letting it take over. His hips roll sinuously, his arms trace down his torso, his thumbs catching on the waistband of his jeans. One song becomes another and another, and Stiles feels his pulse start to race and his skin starts to hum as his own teasing touches and the press of bodies and the thick feel of desire in the air wakes a thrill of heat and need in his belly.

 

He takes a few moments to enjoy it, to enjoy his quickening breath, the sweat beading on his skin, the now vaguely novel sensation of arousal without Derek’s presence. There's a warm presence in front of him and he opens his eyes to see an attractive man with dirty blond hair and icy eyes smiling at him. It's overtly flirtatious but somehow uncertain and Stiles finds it charming. He smiles in answer to the stranger's questioningly quirked brow, and absolutely doesn't think about their inferior vocabulary (because he's fluent in eyebrow, and he can appreciate an extensive glossary of expressions, ok?) But really, he doesn't compare the man's eyebrows to He-who-shall-not-be-thought-about’s. Or his stubble-less jawline.

 

He doesn't.

 

And he must get distracted not doing that for long enough to make Mr. Icy Eyes feel antsy, because he starts to take a step back, spurring Stiles to action.

 

He moves his arms from where they were behind his head and at his hip to wind them around the stranger's shoulders, moving just far enough into his space to do so comfortably. The man loosely holds Stiles’ hips and they start to move together; it isn't effortless, but they find a rhythm easily, moving in counterpoint and moving closer together.

 

It's strange to dance with someone else; after a few years with Derek, it's foreign to hold someone else like this. He and Derek go out, and occasionally they'll dance with others, but always together. The lack of Derek's presence starts to itch at the back of Stiles’ neck, he can almost feel his eyes there, as though his wandering thoughts had conjured the man. 

 

He grows more anxious, his distress a tangible, acrid thing, even to his own only-human senses, and his rhythm falters, causing the man to look at him with those cool blue eyes full of concern. And then, there's a familiar warmth at his back and warm arms encircling his waist, a beloved, stubbled jaw resting on his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck. The voice he didn't realize he'd been scared of never hearing again until it was there, in his ear, the one he wants to hear everyday for the rest of his forever promising gently  _ “I've got you, sweetheart. You're alright.”  _

 

And suddenly, he is. He sags against the body behind him, the sense of  _ home _ immediately overwhelming. He barely notices the man he was dancing with back away with a small smile and a nod to Derek, who is helping Stiles settle his arms around Derek's. A sob that is equal parts relief and surprise escapes him, and Derek is turning him around and holding him like he's precious, placing tender kisses anywhere he can reach.

 

And then, Derek  _ freakin’  _ Hale is tilting his chin up and looking at him with those goddamned kaleidoscope eyes, and smiling with his stupid perfect lips this adoring, private smile that only Stiles ever gets to see, and asking for permission with his fucking beautiful, ridiculous, well-spoken eyebrows. Stiles’ eyes search Derek’s face, and he remembers for just a moment the sound of their front door slamming, and the fear of how  _ final _ Derek’s last shouted “ _ I can’t do this right now, _ ” had sounded. He remembers the feeling of walking into this bar with his blood buzzing in his veins and his mind racing. He looks Derek in the eye and makes certain that he sounds steady when he says “You can’t just-”

 

“I know,” Derek interrupts contritely.

 

“I won’t always just forgi-”

 

“I know, baby. I’m so, so sorry I left like that.”

 

Derek sounds sincere. He also sounds a little scared, like he isn’t sure Stiles will forgive him, despite the close press of their bodies. “I was really afraid you weren’t coming back,” Stiles says honestly, voice quiet and small, but not breaking over the words.

 

Derek makes a small, shattered sound, like the thought of Stiles’ fear is physically painful. “You know I can never stay away from you for long,” he says, a hopeful smile curving his lips. 

 

It’s enough. Stiles relaxes further into Derek’s chest, rests their foreheads together and sighs out “Thank the gods for that,” against Derek’s lips.

 

Then, Stiles is kissing him, lips pressed tightly together, hands fisted in his shirt front, eyes squeezed shut, and Derek is pressing back gently, one hand rubbing soothingly at the small of his back, the other caressing Stiles’ face. Stiles relaxes into the kiss, lips softly parting, hands slowly releasing Derek's shirt, and climbing Derek's chest in loving strokes, threading in his hair and clasping the back of his neck.

  
  


~~~

 

The tip of Derek's (expert) tongue slides across the seam of Stiles’ mouth, and he gently pulls back to take a moment to be awed by the flush of Stiles’ cheeks, his slightly parted lips, and heavy lidded eyes. He can't help the low, needy growl that sneaks past his lips or the quick nip he takes of that plump bottom lip. 

 

Stiles meets his eyes, and he also can't help the relief that floods his whole being at having those amber pools to gaze into once again. The whole evening had been just… shitty. Empty.

 

They had fought, and he had walked out. He had hoped to keep himself from saying something he didn't mean, and instead had done the damage anyways by leaving. He knew even as he slammed the door, before that, really. But, his Stiles pushed all of his buttons, in all of the best and worst ways, and though most days Stiles anchored him, he could also make him lose control like no one else.

 

So he had walked out and taken a drive,  eventually calling Lydia to ask for advice when he returned to an empty house. He really should know better, because all he got from her was an eye roll he could practically hear through the phone and a curt “So find him and fix it. You two are so stupid, sometimes I can hardly believe you even got your heads out of-”. Derek had cut her off with a quick “Love you, too, Lyds,” before hanging up.

 

He checked all the usual places: Scott’s, the Sheriff’s, the diner with Stiles’ favorite milkshakes and fries, before thinking to check the club. He found him immediately, picking up his scent automatically among the cacophony of odors, a habit after so many years. He'd watched curious hands and hungry eyes roam his boyfriend's body. He had watched Stiles get lost in the music, hypnotized by his sensual movement, the rocking and rolling of his hips, the graceful sway of his torso and his arms. The maddening tease of his strong, long fingered hands over his lean muscled abs. Derek caught the scent of Stiles’ arousal, the increased pace of his heartbeat, even in the crowd; there will never be another person he is so innately aware of, so attuned to. Stiles is his forever.

 

Provided, of course, that he will forgive him.

 

Derek watched as a man approached Stiles, as Stiles wound his arms around the stranger and smiled, and Derek had a moment where he thought he was too late, that the damage had gone deeper than he had thought, deeper than he could fix. It must have been longer than a moment, the panic nearly blinding, dulling his senses, because the song is different when he catches the scent of distress rolling off his mate. It takes him mere seconds to get through the crowd, the idea of Stiles hurting spurring swift action.

 

And then, Stiles is in his arms, and everything is ok again. The stranger leaves with an understanding nod, and Stiles melts against him, his scent and heart rate normalizing, wrapping Derek up in a sense of  _ home  _ and  _ safe  _ and  _ love _ .

 

After a brief exchange wherein Stiles scolds him and Derek interrupts him, Stiles kisses him before he can ask forgiveness in the way he’d practiced in the car, and it's too uncertain and desperate, so Derek gentles it and Stiles acquiesces, and the taste of whiskey and Stiles goes to his head. He pulls away gently, only far enough away to look at Stiles’ face.

 

“I'm so fucking sorry, Stiles.”

 

“Forgive me, Der?”

 

They speak in unison, twin grins of relief answering matching apologies.

 

“I love you,” they say together.

 

They press their foreheads together, looking at each other for long moments, the music and the dancing, writhing bodies around them forgotten, before turning as one to leave, hands clasped, heading for home.

 

~~~

 

Stiles catches the looks they get on the way to the door. Hungry and jealous and wanting.

 

_ That's right, bitches, I get to go home with Derek freakin’ Hale, and his beautiful fucking eyebrows, and his perfect stubble that leaves the prettiest burn on my thighs. Look all you want, he's mine. _

 

He walks out grinning, and can't keep the laugh that bubbles out of him in.

 

~~~

 

Derek sees the looks they get on their way to the door. He pulls Stiles a little closer.

 

_ He's mine, assholes. Mine, forever. You can look, but you won't get his snark. The mouthy little shit is mine. _

 

Stiles laughs, and it startles him. “What?”

 

“Babe, you've got the whole murder-brows thing happening, you're scaring everyone.”

 

Derek leans in to whisper in Stiles’ ear, “That's not fear, baby. They all reek of want, they can't take their eyes off of you.”

 

Stiles, of course, deflects with “I'd be like heaven to touch, they want to hold me so much…”

 

Derek growls a little at the thought, and Stiles shivers.

 

“Don't worry, Der,  _ I  _ can't take my eyes off of  _ you. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/poetry-protest-pornography)


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